The Prophet Murders (17 page)

“I can’t do everything for you,” he replied.

I hesitantly extended my hand to him.

“Thank you,” I said. “Perhaps we can be friends. I certainly wouldn’t want you for an enemy.”

“I’m sure you don’t. Because you’re frightened. You’re afraid of me.”

“You might be right,” I agreed. My hand hovered in mid-air.

“Get out of here,” he said. “You disappointed me. I thought you were different. But you’re not.”

I hadn’t had any sleep, and thinking about Kemal just made me more irritable. The thought of coping with Ponpon at home was more than I could bear, so I headed straight for the office.

Ali wasn’t around. I informed the know-it-all secretary, Figen, that she wasn’t to put through any calls under any circumstances. Then I entered my office. I intended to have a close look at the files I’d copied from Jihad2000.

I interrupted Figen’s game of computer patience to ask her for a cup, strong and black.

While waiting for it to arrive I got online and took out two empty discs. I began downloading files. First I looked at the file he’d collected on me. Every single movement I’d made on the internet had been recorded. Even John Pruitt! My address, telephone numbers, shopping records, every piece of mail I’d sent. They were all there. Jihad2000 was truly a terrifying character.

I couldn’t decide if Kemal was a victim of destiny or the recipient of divine justice. A twisted mind had been imprisoned in an equally twisted body. Was it a case of cause and effect, or did he get just what he deserved? I was taken aback by my own train of thought. I realised I was thinking along the lines of the Inquisition, who believed in burning cripples because they were possessed by demons. I was ashamed of myself.

My thoughts were interrupted by Figen’s fuzzy head, which poked into the room after a sharp rap on the door.

“I know you’re busy,” she apologised, “and I’m sorry to interrupt, but the person on the phone says it’s terribly urgent.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

“The lady who rang the other day; the one with the deep voice.”

It must be Gönül on the line. I’d completely forgotten about her, even though she’d promised some news.

“Put her through,” I said.

Gönül’s typically carefree voice fairly tinkled down the line.

She was as joyous and light as someone who believes with all her heart that ignorance is a gift from God.

“I’m not disturbing you, am I?” she began.

“What do you mean,” I assured her. “I was just thinking of you. I was wondering how to get in touch.”

“Speak of the devil, they say. In my case, it’s quite the opposite, of course. You know I’ve got a heart of gold.”

“I’ve got no doubt of that,” I said, right on cue. “Didn’t you have something to tell me?”

“Why don’t you invite me to lunch and we’ll talk then. Not where we went last week, though. It was so boring. There wasn’t anyone but us. Let’s go somewhere crowded. We can check them out; they can check us out. That’s always more fun, don’t you think?”

“Cat got your tongue?” she said. “Just tell me if you’d rather not.”

“I was just trying to think of a place to go.”

“Oh,” she said. “Don’t think so much. You’ll end up losing your mind.”

She followed this up with a luxurious laugh.

“There’s a great pizza restaurant in Levent,” I said. “A real chic place.”

“Fine.”

“When can you come?”

“I’lI be there this afternoon . . . ”

“Well, when this afternoon? I mean, what time exactly?” I asked.

“I’m in Altimermer right now. How long do you think it will take to get there?”

“Where in Altimermer?’’

“Haseki,” she said. “And I won’t be coming by taxi. There’s no way I’m paying that kind of money.”

“Plan on it taking about an hour,” I said. “It’s nearly 11 now, so we’ll meet at the restaurant at 12:30. All right?”

“Fine. But what’s the name of the restaurant? Levent’s a huge district. Let’s not get lost looking for each other.”

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s called Pizza Express. It’s right at the entrance to Etiler, to the left on Nispetiye Caddesi.”

“The road that goes to Akmerkez Shopping Centre, right?”

“That’s it,” I said. “Just past Namli Kebab Shop.”

“Got it. I can practically see it in my mind’s eye.”

“See you later then.”

“Hang on a minute,” she said. “They’ll realize about me there, won’t they?”

I smiled to myself. Only a blind idiot would fail to recognize Gönül for what she was.

“Don’t worry about it,” I reassured her. “By the way, I’m dressed as a man. Plan accordingly.”

“Oh, I’d recognize you anywhere,” she said. It was clear that some of the files in front of me would have to wait until after lunch. I had a little over an hour and intended to make the most of it.

First, I investigated the dossier on Adem Yildiz. Even the tiniest detail had been collected and stored. Despite family pressure, he was still a bachelor. He was thirty-one, a ripe old age for an unmarried man in those circles. He’d completed his compulsory military service, opting for the shorter version. After graduating from a religious high school of no particular academic standing, he’d studied English. That’s probably where he went wrong. While superficially devout, he wasn’t particularly religious. There was evidence that he didn’t fast during Ramadan, using his travelling as an excuse. I really wondered how Jihad2000 had got his hands on all this information.

Correspondence and e-mails between Adem Yildiz and various companies were all filed away. There was nothing of particular interest. He spent a great deal of time visiting porn sites when he was online. Transvestite sites seemed to be a favourite.

He didn’t seem interested in cars, but had a penchant for high fashion. His habit of wearing only the most expensive designer labels probably reflected his upbringing as a spoilt rich kid.

He travelled often, but didn’t stay anywhere for long. After graduating, he visited London at regular three-month intervals. From time to time, he made brief trips elsewhere. The travel files collected by Jihad2000 were a confused mess, and it didn’t seem worthwhile to sort through them. So the guy liked to go on holiday. What was potentially significant was what he did during his trips. Of that, there were no records. My Stephen Hawking must not have been able to get his hands on that kind of information.

One thing that attracted my attention was his high school years. It took him much longer than normal to complete school. But what was really strange was that he graduated. from Sakarya Imam Hatip Lisesi rather than the school he had attended for seven years. Something had happened in his final year to make him change schools. He’d left Istanbul and ended up graduating in Sakarya. It was probably a case of friends in high places, a common enough occurrence when it came to the idle children of the wealthy. When it became apparent that their children wouldn’t be able to graduate from normal schools, the fashion was for rich families to make generous donations to high prestige schools, which in turn provided the desired diploma.

The file contained numerous photographs, mostly market openings, as well as clippings from newspapers and magazines. Adem Yildiz was quite the dandy in each one: buttoned jacket, snugly fastened tie, a raised eyebrow and a pose both casual and haughty.

The only picture in which he wasn’t wearing a tie was taken in Bodrum’s Mazi harbour, while he was water-skiing. He was wearing shorts that fell to just below his knees, in the conservative fashion. His chest appeared to be quite hairy. The quality and size of the photo made it difficult to determine what his body was like, but he was clearly no bodybuilder. He was neither heavyset, nor particularly thin.

I wondered if Fehmi
enyürek appeared in any of the pictures. But I couldn’t really remember what he looked like. Even if he was a member of the party that arrived at the club with Ahmet Kuyu that night, it was unlikely I’d recognise him in a photograph. I’d have to finish later. It was time for me to go and find out what Gönül had learned.

She had apparently made an effort to play it straight. But the effect was still a disaster. The phosphorous green tiara adorning her long tresses was a dead giveaway.

As she kissed me, I nearly keeled over from the stench of the knock-off Joop perfume she habitually drenches herself with. I really must remember to buy her a reasonable bottle of perfume or cologne.

Knowing what she is like, I ordered for us both. She would, of course, opt for the most expensive pizza. A self-satisfied smile was fixed on her face.

“Tell me right away what you have to say,” I prompted.

“I’m just dying to know. . . ” I said.

“I’ll tell you . . . I’ll tell you . . . But first let me have a look around. Where am I? Who’s here? What are the guys like? Then I’ll tell you.”

She scrutinised, one by the one, the occupants of the three other tables and each and every waiter. She looked each one directly in the eye, and bestowed on them all a tiny screech of admiration. I felt myself redden. It would be some time before I visited Pizza Express again.

“Just get a load of all these gorgeous waiters!” she practically shouted.

Everyone heard.

“What’s with the blushing?” she asked.

“It’s a bit much,” I said.

“What do you mean? Appreciation for true beauty is a virtue.”

“Look,” I pleaded, “Just try not to shout.”

“Fine then,” she said, lowering her voice slightly. “You.

know I’ve got a weak spot for men like Kadir Inanir. Look at that one over there.”

She pointed. I grabbed her finger and pulled it down onto the table. “He’s a young Kadir.

Ianir Well, aren’t you hot stuff mister! I He’s a bit short, his chin’s too bony and the eyes are all wrong. But you can’t have everything, now can you?” anir at any age, The waiter, who looked nothing like Kadir I arrived at our table with rolls and dipping dishes of aromatic olive oil. Gönül watched his every move, rapt.

Realising she was about to open her mouth, I kicked her under the table.

“Enough!” I said. “If you keep this up we’ll be thrown out of here. We’ll end up eating sandwiches at the shop down the road.”

“What’s the problem? Haven’t they all got pee-pees?” was her response. Fortunately she’d said this in a low voice. No one had heard.

“Cut it out,” I said. “Tell you what, we can go down to Bebek when we’re finished. It’s crawling with men. Now tell me what you found out.”

“You’re always so pushy. Questions, questions, questions . . . ”

I gave her a long hard stare. She glared right back. Then she pouted slightly as she began telling me about the coroner’s.

“The autopsy performed on Gül’s body revealed that she had had intercourse with more than one person.” Gönül’s eyes grew misty as she told me this. “She’d also been tortured a bit. That is, she’d been severely beaten.”

“What’s more,” she continued, “Gül came. I mean, she ejaculated. That was never her thing. She’d never come on the job. ‘That’s private; just for my own pleasure,’ she’d say. She was a real lady.”

I didn’t ask for an explanation of the connection between not coming and being a lady. She was concentrating on her story.

“They’d also put one of those metal rings on her thingy. You know, the one that keeps it erect all the time. It was still on when they found her and she’d turned quite purple.”

Now that was strange. There was no mention of a cock-ring in the coroner’s report. Nor was there any mention of the deceased sporting an erection.

“That’s not her way at all. She wouldn’t dream of sticking one of those things on. She’d even hide her thingy when she made love. She was ashamed of it. So why would she put that metal thing on it to keep it hard . . . It’s just so strange. I wanted to tell you all of this because you’re so good at connecting the dots. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Just like Lieutenant Colombo.”

Her reference to Colombo dated us both. As for the cock-ring, it could only mean one thing: Gönül had been the active partner. And that pointed straight to Adem Yildiz.

“But you’re not even listening to me,” she protested.

Right at that moment her pizza and my enormous salad arrived. As always, a waiter stood on either side, one with a pepper grinder and the other with a dish of spicy oil. Gönül wanted both.

“Don’t mind me,” I said. “I’m just trying to figure something out. I was a bit lost in thought.”

“You know what I told you about thinking too much!”

And she let loose another raucous laugh. There was no trace of the mournfulness of just a few moments earlier.

“And don’t neglect your food. My pizza is delicious. I hope that green stuff is going to fill you up.”

“I’m dieting,” I explained.

And she laughed again, of course. If there was anyone left who hadn’t noticed us, they did now. There was no ignoring Gönül’s chortles. And anyone who heard them naturally looked over to see who or what had produced them.

We finished lunch with idle chatter. She explained in detail the pain and suffering caused by a rectoscopy. It was dulling my appetite, so I let her get on with it. Over half my salad remained untouched.

As she mopped up the rest of the sauce on her plate with a bit of crust, she dropped a bombshell.

“Did you realize that the police never found her clothes, handbag, identity card or anything else? You’d think that they had carted her off as naked as the day she was born!”

It was an astute observation.

“Maybe the police took everything,” I guessed.

It was entirely possible. I’ve heard that the victims of traffic accidents have found themselves relieved of their wristwatches.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t know Gül. She wore nothing larger than this.”

Gönül extended her hand.

The hand was actually rather large. But that’s another story.

“Then they must have been lost,” I said.

“All right. Let’s say everything was lost. But wouldn’t you expect a single shoe, a bag, a pair of panties, an ID card or something to be left behind?”

She had a point. The fact that absolutely nothing turned up was a bit strange.

“I wonder how they identified the body,” I mused.

“Once our girls are out on the market there isn’t a single policeman who doesn’t know who they are. She got arrested and taken to the venereal clinic every other day. Then she’d hand over some cash and get released.”

“That doesn’t matter,” I persisted. “They’d have to find some way to identify the body.”

“Then they must have spotted the tattoo on her bottom. She’d had a big pink rose done. The second she arrived in Istanbul. And she always wore a G-string. She wanted to make sure everyone saw it.”

I didn’t ask where or how Gül had displayed her bottom to the police. Where there’s a will there’s a way. So our little Gül-Yusuf was even more of an exhibitionist than the rest of us.